


Needled

by QuailiTea



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Absurdly fluffy, F/M, Feminist Themes, Laundry, Sewing, bring a toothbrush, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18456746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuailiTea/pseuds/QuailiTea
Summary: "I'd like to see you try to use my sewing machine, Hugh Collins."





	Needled

Hugh Collins was in the doghouse, right and proper. He wasn’t precisely sure how he had gotten into it, but he knew quite well that he had landed there, and that he would not be getting out any time in the near future. Dottie hadn’t shouted, not exactly, but the leaping note of her voice when Miss Fisher had rung, the lack of even the most perfunctory peck on the cheek, and the extra-firm slam she had given the door on the way out strongly suggested that he was going to be on his own for dinner, and possibly the remainder of the night as well. “Which,” he muttered to himself, as he walked through the little flat, “presents a problem.” He stepped in three long strides through their poky kitchen, sidled through the doorway, and turned the corner into the parlor. Hugh heaved a sigh and shuffled his feet. He shifted the cloth in his hands, wondering if perhaps, perhaps if he called Miss Fisher’s house and apologize for… whatever it was that he had done? Saying that Mum folded the towels differently was hardly worth apologizing for! “No,” he shook his head, addressing the machine in the corner. “No, she would never let me live that down.”

He took another step forward, feeling a foreboding heaviness in the air. He shifted the uniform in his hands again, running his fingers along the ragged edge of the broken hem and seam of his trousers. Dottie’s sewing machine lurked over the table, its metallic neck arched and curled like some sort of malevolent clockwork swan, beaky needle hovering. Waiting. “Get ahold of yourself Collins,” he muttered and stomped to the seat. “You can drive a car, certainly this thing can’t be any more difficult.” He flung himself onto Dottie’s stool and let out an involuntary “Oof!” when the cushion turned out to be a good four inches below where he expected it. “Now,” he said, addressing the contraption. “Where do I twist you to make the spinny bit go up? He reached out an exploratory hand, but nothing seemed particularly forgiving. “Maybe…?” he shifted his feet, sliding them under the table, trying to square himself up. But as he did so, the swan dropped its beak and he suddenly found himself yelping, with a bleeding spot on his finger. “It bit me!” he cried, logic notwithstanding. He tried to duck under the table, to see what could have made the machine move, but succeeded only in cracking his head.

Hugh swore and retreated. He left the pair of trousers on the sewing table, un-jacknifed himself out of the chair, and went to find a bandage, brew a cup of tea, and have a think. When he came back, it was with a new glint to his eye and a plan. First, thread. He rummaged through the sewing box, narrowly avoiding yet another needle into his fingers, until he found a spool that looked the right color. Mostly. It was hard to tell in the dusky light. He took ahold of the whole machine and dragged it out to the center of the room, nearer the lamp, leaving Dottie’s cotton stool with the embroidered violets where it stood. Manly sewing required a manlier chair. He brought a kitchen chair in and squared it up with the machine. Then, cautiously, he seated himself at the sewing machine yet again, this time avoiding stepping on the treadle. He racked his brain, trying to remember exactly how Dottie had maneuvered when she changed the thread from one color to another. But it was too fiddly, and the spool slipped from his fingers and rolled under the table. More clambering and banging ensued. “Wait, I have it!”

The china shepherdess on the mantle watched with saccharine interest as he spiked the much-depleted and re-wound bobbin on the machine, then snaked his black thread through the tiny loops, following the trail of orange from the previous spool. When he got to the needle, it took three more tries and another finger-poke, but he managed to coax his own thread into position. “Now,” he said. “No more biting you… you… thing. Nice! Nice thing.” He tried to stuff the hem of the trousers under the foot, but the cloth bundled. When he went to remove it, there was another outburst of needle-provoked exclamation. Hugh retreated again, to make another cup of tea and get some more bandages. When he returned, he decided to leave the plasters on the table – to save time.

“Right you!” He wiggled his fingers like his grandmother at the organ before church and glanced out the window, just in case. No passers-by. “Listen. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. But I need my trousers hemmed and this popped seam closed by tomorrow morning first thing. And you’re going to help me. Dottie makes it look easy, but if we’re going to manage with both her and I working, I need to be able to do this too.” The swan and the china shepherdess said nothing. Hugh turned on the wireless for distraction, banged back into his manly chair with his uniform in his manly hands, coaxed the beak up, patted the bird on its bottom (gently), and tried again. It made a sort of gentle clucking noise, pecked briskly at the trouser-hem, and lo! A stitch! He pressed down and it made two more stitches. They were a little puckery, but they were holding cloth to cloth with none of his fingers in between. Hugh grinned.

The wireless had turned from a comedy act to some music and Hugh carefully treadled on. Dottie was either going to be proud… or she might laugh her socks off, but at least then she wouldn’t be cross anymore.

\---

Three hours later, Dot came home. She was regretting leaving in such a huff, but Hugh would be so careless with his words! It galled sometimes. “Not the way his mother folded his smalls, indeed." As she unlocked the door, she heard the signoff coming from the radio, and made her way curiously to the living room, wondering what on earth Hugh would be listening to so late when he had an early shift. The sight that greeted her was one to behold.

“Hugh Collins, why is all of our laundry on the sofa?” Her husband looked up from the sewing machine sheepishly, but with a hesitantly charming childlike grin.

“Oh, Dottie,” he shook his head and looked around at the heaps next to him, as if only just realizing that he was surrounded by a pile of linens and clothing, with more hung on the curtain rods and coat pegs, piled in stacks on the chairs and draped along the quilt rack. “I… my trousers needed fixing.”

“You couldn’t have waited for me? Hugh, the tensioning is already tricky and you’d better not have broken my sewing stool!” As she spoke, she was shooing him away from her machine, but when she looked down, her ramble broke in half.

“Did you do all this?” She held up a patched bedsheet, then a mended apron, then a potholder that had been re-stitched. “And you refolded everything?”

“Well, I…” he trailed off and shuffled his feet awkwardly as he leaned back in the chair. “I called Mum – she uses the neighbor’s line sometimes – and I asked her about the folding and she gave me a lecture. So, I did them again.”

“Hugh…” Dottie found she was sniffling. “I flew off the handle. You didn’t need to do all that to make it up to me.”

“No, but Dottie, you’re right. It’s a lot of work. I spent all evening folding and mending and I only just finished.” He spread his hands, and she noticed a thread trailing from his sleeve. “I promise, I’ll follow your lead from now on when it comes to… what are you looking at?”

“Hugh, did you sew yourself to your trousers?”

“Well, it’s just…” She gestured him up, and when he stood, a swathe of fabric came with him. “I couldn’t work out how to end the thread, so I just kept going on different seams until the spool ran out.”

Dot paused for a long, long moment. Hugh continued.

“After that, I had a brainwave for how to do it, but I thought I had better practice on something else first, since I had already done the trousers, so I did the apron, and then I worked out how the tension bit worked, so I did the potholder and…” He was stopped short when Dot pressed a slightly teary kiss to his mouth. He stayed still, so she kissed him a little harder, trying to reassure him that she wasn’t upset, not anymore.

“Oh Hugh, my wonderful husband, you’re ridiculous,” she giggled, nosetip brushing his. “I would have fixed them for you.” She lifted his hand, and when he did, she clipped the linking thread with the embroidery scissors that she had plucked up from the end table. He dipped his head, cheeks pink in the lamplight. “Now,” she said, voice firm. “Try them on and let’s see how you did.”

“In… In the front parlor? Dottie, the neighbors!” But now he was laughing too. “Hold up a sheet for my modesty then. I mean it, Dottie, I’m not going down to my smalls just so you can tell me I’m a worse stitcher than I am driver.” He handed her a towel, but she simply shook it out into perfect thirds. Then, suddenly, she swatted him on the behind with it.

“Trousers off, Collins!” Hugh sprang bolt upright, and swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, hand reflexively twitching towards a salute. “But we should definitely, definitely close the curtains now. I don’t think we want the whole world seeing what I’m thinking I’d like to do with you here and my trousers off.” Dot closed them, smiling bright, but they didn’t bother moving to the bedroom. There were plenty of blankets right there.


End file.
